M. Arlidge - Pop Goes the Weasel

Now that she had what she needed, Emilia was going to act. She should of course ring the editor of the Evening News , but there was no way she was going to do that. There was a contact she’d been cultivating at the Mail for just such an occasion. She had all she needed – if she was quick she could get it on the front page of tomorrow’s edition.

This was her ticket out. She had the price. She had the package. And she had her headline.

‘Son of a Monster.’

Helen was still chewing on her confrontation with Harwood when she arrived at the old cinema on Upton Street. Hugging the shadows, she slipped inside via the fire exit. The building was supposed to be up for sale soon, though who would want to buy it was beyond Helen. As soon as she stepped inside, she was assaulted by a rich aroma – the smell of years of rotting wood and decaying vermin. It made her gag and she quickly put her mask on. Gathering herself, she held on to the shaky rail and made her way downstairs.

The Crown Cinema had been popular with families in the 1970s. It was a traditional picture palace, right down to the galleried theatre seating and heavy velvet curtains that concealed the screen. At least, it had been in its heyday. Its owners had gone bust during the recession in the 1980s and subsequent attempts to resurrect it had fallen foul of the out-of-town multiplexes and the arthouse cinema down by the waterfront. Now the main auditorium was a travesty of its former glory, a fractured mess of torn-up seats and building rubble.

The SOC team were grouped in a corner near the screen. The levels of activity and excitement meant progress. Helen hurried over. The phone call she’d received just after her confrontation with Harwood had been the one small piece of good news she’d had all day. She wanted to see it with her own eyes before she got carried away.

The SOC team parted as she approached. There he was. He was still mostly buried in the rubble, but enough had been lifted off to reveal the top of his head and a raised arm. The fingers on the exposed arm pointed upwards in accusing fashion. The skin, though covered in dust, was dark and suggested the victim was mixed race. But that wasn’t what really interested Helen. More important still was the fact that he only had four fingers, the one having been removed some years earlier by the look of the historic wound.

They didn’t know much about Anton Gardiner – his parentage, his early life – but they did know that he had had his ring finger cut off in a tit-for-tat gang punishment ten years earlier. Was he the trigger for Lyra’s killing spree? Was he the cause of all this? Helen shivered as she looked at his mutilated corpse, a pulse of excitement flowing through her. Was Anton’s ravaged hand finally pointing them in the right direction?

It was cold and dark and she was losing patience. It was getting harder and harder to find room to breathe. The police presence was huge all over the city now and she’d had to be exceedingly cautious, walking the streets in tracksuit bottoms and a hoody, as if out for a late-night jog. Once she’d found a secluded patch down by the Western Docks, she’d stripped off to reveal a short skirt and stockings. A tight top exposed her generous frame, with a short fur jacket the icing on the cake. Despite the frustration and stress of the evening, she felt good as she unveiled herself. Now all she had to do was stand and wait for the dirty dogs to come to her.

Twenty minutes later, a lone figure came into view. He was slightly unsteady on his feet and was muttering a song in a foreign tongue. A sailor, probably a Polish one, she thought. Angel’s heart started to beat faster. Sailors were dirty, unhygienic and coarse, but they always had money when on shore leave and they usually came pretty quickly, having been starved of sex for so long.

The man paused when he spotted her. Casting around to check he was alone, he sauntered over. He was surprisingly pretty – twenty-five at the most with a slender face and female lips. He was drunk to be sure, but not unattractive. Angel was surprised he had to pay for it.

‘How much?’ His accent was thick.

‘What do you want?’

‘Everything,’ he replied.

‘Hundred pounds.’

He nodded.

‘Let’s go.’

And with that he sealed his fate.

Angel walked ahead, leading him through a maze of cargo containers to a small supervisors’ yard. It was here that cargo was supposed to be checked and logged but in truth it was where a fair portion of the imported goods mysteriously disappeared, only to reappear on the black market. It would be deserted tonight – they hadn’t had a delivery all week.

As she led him to his death, Angel fought to suppress a laugh. Her whole body was shaking with adrenalin and excitement. Would she ever kick this habit? Surely not when it felt so good. This was the best bit. The calm before the storm. She loved the pregnant deception of it all.

They were now alone in the darkened yard. Taking a deep breath, she turned.

‘So shall we get started, honey?’

His right fist collided with her jaw, sending her crashing into the container behind her. Stunned, she raised her hands to defend herself, but the blows kept coming. She pushed him away, but the next blow nearly took her head off and she fell heavily to the floor.

What was happening? She tried to scramble to her feet, but he was already on top of her. Instinctively she lashed out. She had dealt with violent punters before, but always with the help of Mace – she had never engaged in hand-to-hand combat like this.

Now he was pinning her down, his strong hands encircling her throat. Squeezing harder, harder, harder. She rammed her fingers into his left eyeball, but he jerked his head away, out of her reach. She could see the blood pumping through a vein on his neck and she slashed at it with her fractured nails. Surely he would release his grip if he started to bleed out? It wasn’t meant to be like this. She wasn’t meant to die in this miserable place.

She fought for all she was worth. She fought for her life. But it was too little too late and after only a few seconds the lights went out.

Tony was relieved to see that Nicola was asleep. It was late, but she often struggled to get to sleep. Tony knew that had she been awake, had those deep blue eyes looked up at him as he entered, he would have confessed everything to her. He wouldn’t have been able to hold back, such were his feelings of confusion, exhilaration and shame. As it was, he just had to exchange a few stilted sentences with Violet – staring at the floor and claiming tiredness – before she went on her way and he was left alone with his wife.

Tony had never been unfaithful before and he still loved Nicola. Loved her even more if that was possible, now that he had the shame of his infidelity weighing on his conscience. He didn’t want to hurt her – he’d never wanted to hurt her – and they had always told each other everything. But what was he going to say to her now?

The truth was that he was still buzzing. He and Melissa had made love twice more before he eventually left. The plod on the door looked at the thick file under his arm and seemed to buy that he had been diligently taking Melissa’s testimony all the while. Tony felt another pulse of shame; not only had he betrayed Nicola, he had betrayed his colleagues too. He had always been a good copper, where had this sudden fall from grace come from?